


I Shouldn't. But I Will

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Uni Sherlock, army John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John Watson is on a three day leave, and back in London for the first time in years. Instead of going back to his hotel for the night, he makes one last stop, and runs into someone he never expected to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shouldn't. But I Will

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I had an idea, and I ran with it. This is a gift to my writing buddy, who will, at some point, use the same idea to write her own version of the story. 
> 
> This is my first time writing something that didn't have plot or a place to go, so I do hope you enjoy it.

"God, your mouth is fucking delicious."

"Mmm."

John's tongue delved deeper into sherlock's mouth, and he pushed the boy up against the wall, trapping him between the cold metal of the stall and his body.

Sherlock shoved his hand down the front of John's jeans, not bothering to unbutton the fly or even pop open the button.

"Yea, Sherlock." John whispered against his mouth.

"Are you going to fuck me?" Sherlock asked.

"I shouldn't. I shouldn't even be here with you right now."

Sherlock ground his hips into Johns, pushing the grip of his hand harder against Johns cock.

"Do you really want to walk away now?"

He should have walked away. He shouldn't have even brought Sherlock back to the loo, or accepted the very first offered drink, but John was already a little bit more than pissed when he walked through the doors of the pub, and the last time he saw Sherlock, he was eleven, and trying hard as hell not to let John know he was sad about him shipping out to Afghanistan. John couldn't believe that the little boy he left behind had grown up into the young man sitting on the barstool next to him; his hand suggestively far up on his thigh.

He used to help Sherlock with his homework for Christ sake, used to patch up his scraped his knees and calm his tears when the other kids at school called him a freak.

"Oh, God no." John answered, his head falling against Sherlock's shoulder.

He could hear Sherlock chuckle above him, and felt him slide his hand out of his jeans. John whimpered at the loss of his unbelievably long and dexterous fingers. Sherlock's mouth landed hot and wet against John's neck, sucking and biting at the skin.

"Come home with me."

"Sherlock, really, I shouldn't."

"But you want to. You were thinking of a way to get me in here all night, and while I appreciate a good one off in the men's as much as the next person, I would quite like to explore this body of yours a bit more thoroughly."

"Oh, God, Sherlock. You are- you are too fucking much."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes; absolutely yes."

 

~*~

 

The cab ride was near excruciating. It was all they could do to keep from tearing into one another right there in the backseat. Sherlock was so lean, and so bloody tall, and he smelled more enticing than anyone should ever be allowed to smell. He kept running his hand on the inner seam of john's jeans, brushing the tips of his fingers lightly, too lightly, against his aching cock.

When the cab finally stopped, Sherlock leapt out and left John to pay for the ride. When John turned around, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the door of the building they stopped at was wide open. John crossed the sidewalk inside. He looked down a small set of stairs first, and then up to see another door wide open.

John took the steps two at a time until he was inside the flat.

The first thing he noticed was the utter sense of chaos. There were books and papers strewn about in cardboard boxes, dressing gowns tossed haphazardly over the un matching furniture, and a skull staring at him from the mantle.

The second thing he noticed was the  lab where a kitchen should be. There were beakers and small bottles of chemicals. There were glass slides, and  a microscope, and...fingers. Why did Sherlock have fingers?

The third thing, and really the most important, was Sherlock leaning against the wall of a hallway, the buttons of his shirt undone, and hanging open to expose the milky flesh underneath, and his trousers gone, leaving him only in tight, black pants.

"Wow." John said on the exhale of his breath.

Sherlock smirked, and pushed off from the wall. He opened the fridge, where John caught sight of more loose body parts, and took out two bottles of beer. He popped off the tops and handed one to John.

"You have questions." Sherlock said.

"I'm just wondering; do you live here by yourself?"

"Yes. I was living at University, but it seems that when you stop attending classes you get kicked out, and when you get kicked out, you no longer can stay in the rooms."

"Why did you stop attending your classes?"

"They were boring."

John ran his fingers along the table, around and through the equipment. They passed over a pile of manila folders. He picked up the top one and opened it to see photos of a woman lying on what looked like a gravel road with a rope tied around her neck.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Crime scene photos."

"How do you have crime scene photos? Why do you have crime scene photos?"

"I nicked them the last time I was arrested, because as I believe I've already stated, I'm bored."

"The last time- Sherlock."

John set the folder down, and shuffled over so that he was standing just in front of Sherlock. He reached out his hand and brushed his fingers down the length of Sherlock's chest.

"What happened to that little boy who used to insist on wearing a pirate hat to bed?"

"He grew up."

John gripped at Sherlock's hips, hooked his thumb underneath the band of his pants and pulled him into his body.

"Yes. I see that."

He pushed up on his toes, and licked his way into Sherlock's mouth; tasting the beer on his lips. He twined their tongues together, and slid his hands up Sherlock's back, feeling the muscles underneath ripple over his palms. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, and grasped at his shirt, pushing it up over his skin and over his head.

Sherlock took a step back, and looked at John with an intense gaze, following the lines of his body. John was still mostly dressed, but under Sherlock's eyes he felt naked and exposed.

"When I was seven," Sherlock said suddenly, "I thought you were beautiful. There wasn't anything sexual about it. I just thought you were beautiful the same way I thought my mum was or the way actresses were on the tele. I told Mycroft, and he said, 'that's lovely Sherlock, but maybe something you should keep to yourself'. So, I did. Not just about you, but about any boy I found beautiful thereafter."

"Sherlock-"

"And when I was fourteen, I was cleaning out my wardrobe, and found a box with a photo of you. You'd been gone for three years by then, and I was so angry when you first left, because you were my only friend; the only person who tolerated me without having to. So, I threw everything that reminded me of you into that box and buried it in the back of my wardrobe. The photo was of you in our yard, leaning against the apple tree in a t-shirt and jeans. I think it was from my tenth birthday."

Sherlock tugged at the button of John's jeans, and unzipped the flies. He mouthed at John's neck. licking his tongue along John's strained tendon and sucking at his pulse point.

"I masturbated to that photo of you that night, and many nights after." he said. "Eventually I had that image of you burned into my mind, and every time I touched myself, whether in bed, or in the shower, or in the toilets at school, I thought of you."

" _Fuck_." John said, arching his head back to offer up more neck to Sherlock's mouth.

"When I saw you tonight, I knew that I had to have you."

John grabbed at Sherlock's face and crashed their mouths together. He pushed inside, fucking his mouth in earnest. Sherlock's hands had slipped down the back of John's pants and he was squeezing large chunks of flesh, massaging his fingers against the smooth skin there.

"Bedroom, Sherlock. Right now."

"Yes, Captain."

John's knees melted into a pool of jelly at Sherlock's words. It was wholly unbelievable how sexy and wonderful he was. John didn't remember the boys being anything like Sherlock when he was nineteen himself.

The angles and the planes of his body were so sharp and defined, as John crawled across his body, lying Sherlock down on the unmade bed, he thought that with one wrong move he could cut himself on a hipbone or the jut of his ribs, and he almost certainly could split his lip open kissing at the cut of his cheekbones.

As John kissed a trail down Sherlock's squirming body a metallic flicker caught his eye. He turned his head, and saw a pair of gleaming handcuffs sitting on a top a stack of books.

"Nick those too?" John asked, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock looked to where John was, and grinned. He reached out to grab them, and dangled them over John's head.

"Interested in using them?" Sherlock asked.

John never had. He wasn't the most adventurous when it came to sex, not because it wasn't in him to be, but mostly because his sexual encounters before the Army involved shy teenage girls who wanted to be kissed far longer than was necessary, and weren't interested in much beyond how quickly his finger could make them climax, and the boys weren't much different. It was a quid pro quo game of sucking each other off before someone else came into the room to see what they were up to. His sexual encounters now, were limited to much of the same secrecy with the other men in his regiment, and to brief, mostly unsatisfying turns with local women, either near the base or when he was on leave.

"Yes." John answered.

"Me or you?"

John snatched the cuffs from Sherlock's hands, "You. And I want you to tell me everything you ever imagined when you were wanking to my picture."

John slapped the cuffs over Sherlock's wrists and then to the small spindles of his headboard. He kept them close together, so Sherlock wouldn't hurt himself too bad straining against them. When he was restrained, John straddled his waist, grinding himself down against Sherlock's clothed erection.

Sherlock's mouth opened in a silent gasp, and his eyes fell shut as John continued to move in a circular motion on top of him.

"Tell me, Sherlock, what did I used to do to you?"

"I had a number of ridiculous adolescent fantasies that ranged from me being a pupil of yours who needed a little extra attention, to you saving my life, and of course, you being my superior officer. The fact that you had gone off to be a good soldier was not lost on me, nor was it lost on me that you're eleven years older than I. But more often than not, it was simple, and it was much like tonight."

John leaned over him, dog tags hovering between them, and the very edge of the rounded, cold metal sliding against Sherlock's skin.

"We would meet somewhere; sometimes on purpose, sometimes on accident, and it wouldn't take much convincing on my part, because you wanted me; right where we were, right then."

John licked at Sherlock's chin, and then over the seam of his lips until Sherlock's mouth opened and he could lick inside.

"Did I go down on you?" John asked.

"Y-yes, you did."

John broke away and hooked his fingers underneath Sherlock's pants. He tugged at them, and Sherlock arched off the bed until they had been slipped off from his arse and pulled through his feet. John spread Sherlock's legs and settled in between them. He took a hold of Sherlock's prick and jerked from base to tip, smearing pre-come over his fingers, and then back up again.

" _Oh."_ Sherlock said from the top of the bed.

John held firmly onto the base and closed his mouth around the tip. He felt Sherlock twitch at the sensation as he twirled his tongue in time with a twisting motion of his wrist. He stayed on Sherlock's sensitive tip, letting pearls of pre-come fall onto his tongue.

Above him, Sherlock's hands gripped at the spindles of the headboard as he fought against the handcuffs trying to find a way to touch John. His chest was expanding and contracting rapidly as he lost control of his breath. John's tongue was an expert tease; deliberately working Sherlock's sensitive tip into a frenzy, threatening to make him come before he wanted to.

John's grip fell, and quite suddenly he had Sherlock's entire length in his mouth, pushing him to the back of his throat. Sherlock yelped in surprise, and started a steady stream of panting.

It was good. So good.

Sherlock didn't believe in coincidence, but he most certainly did not believe in fate, so he truly had no idea what it was that brought John into that pub, but really, he didn't care.  John, in a sickenly sentimental way was the man of Sherlock's dreams, he was the man whom all of Sherlock's adolescent fantasies revolved around, his idea of beauty built around his face.

Sherlock was not a popular child. He knew too much and learned too quickly. Other children didn't understand him, and adults were afraid of him. When his mum went back to work, she needed someone to mind him after school as Mycroft was too busy with his studies to be bothered by his little brother anymore. John was looking for extra money to let a flat with some friends after graduation. Straight away Sherlock was enamored with John, and how he didn't seem to mind how unlike all the other boys he was. John stared in amazement as six year old Sherlock deduced him down to the core, knowing that his mother was a serial adulterer, his sister was a burgeoning alcoholic, and that John wanted to break up with his girlfriend, but didn't know how. John willingly was the assistant to many of Sherlock's experiments, and he was always ready to be the perfect first mate. He never staged a mutiny like Mycroft always did.

John was Sherlock's best friend, and when he left to finish his medical studies with the RAMC, Sherlock was devastated. He tried to forget him, would have deleted him if he knew how at the time, but he just couldn't.

"John." Sherlock's voice cut into the dim of the room like a spark of electricity, "John, I want to fuck you."

John hummed against Sherlock's cock, and let it slide from his mouth with an obscene _pop_. His lips were a swollen bright pink, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand, collecting the mixture of fluids that was starting to dribble down his chin, and then wipe it against the sheets on the bed.

"Where are the keys for those bloody things?" he asked.

"The drawer of the nightstand."

John stretched over Sherlock, and opened the drawer. He dug around the odds and ends, and found the keys in the bottom corner.

"Condoms and lube?" he asked.

"Under the bed. Unlock me, and I'll get it."

John unlocked the cuffs, and Sherlock rubbed his wrists before he closed his fingers over the side of John's face, and kissed him.

They both were on their knees, bending toward one another before Sherlock grabbed John by the scruff of his neck, and pushed him down against the mattress so that his face was in the pillow and his arse in the air. Sherlock reached underneath his bed, and pulled out a box with the necessary items, and set it next to him.

He ran a smooth palm over the expanse of John's behind, and leant in to sink his teeth into his skin. John jumped, and pushed back, asking Sherlock to do it again, and so he did. He kissed and nipped at John's arse, and with cool lube slicked over his fingers he teased at John's hole, pressing gentle pressure with his thumb before slipping a long finger inside.

John pulled back at the initial sensation, but quickly relaxed as Sherlock moved his finger in and out. John ground against him, and panted into the pillow. Sherlock gave him a warning before he added a second finger, and shortly after a third, taking his time to stretch John out.

John didn't remember being nearly as efficient as Sherlock was when he was his age; he was pretty sure he still wasn't this efficient, despite his reputation with his Army buddies as Three Continents Watson; just because he had a lot of sex, didn't mean it was good, and this; well this was bloody damn good.

He was fighting every instinct in his body that was telling him to touch himself as he leaked against the sheets, because there was no way that he was going to come before Sherlock fucked him properly.

"Sherlock." John said, nearly out of breath.  "Sherlock, please."

Sherlock's fingers slipped away, and John whimpered at the cold, hollow feeling that rushed through him. There was the sound of a foil wrapper being torn open and the squelchy sound of lube being slicked between latex and skin. John waited, not realizing he wasn't breathing until Sherlock pushed inside of him, and John let out something between a moan and a shout.

It was marvelous, with one of Sherlock's hands on his shoulder and the other on his waist as he fucked John, whispering dirty words that didn't even make sense, but it didn't matter any. John was strong, but Sherlock, for all his bones and angles, was strong as well; keeping up a frantic pace, and eventually hauling John up into his lap. John ground down into Sherlock, riding him into a mess of broken, breathless whines.

"John; _fuck-_ John"

"You're close, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded his head against John's shoulder. John tugged at Sherlock's arm and brought his hand to his cock. As Sherlock jerked John, John reached behind him, and pressed his hand against the small of Sherlock's back, pushing their bodies impossibly close.

Their orgasms hit at the same time; John's head fell back while Sherlock's fell forward. They stayed connected like that until the world came back into focus. They cleaned themselves with a flannel Sherlock brought from the bathroom, and stripped the top sheet from the bed before both collapsing into it, and falling asleep; John's head at Sherlock's feet.

 

~*~

 

John woke some time later, not sure of the time, or where exactly he was until his eyes focused on the bedroom. He looked next to him to see that Sherlock wasn't there at the same moment he heard a soft melody coming from the other room. John slid out from the bed, and rummaged through Sherlock's drawers when the cold air hit him. He found a pair of pyjamas in a top drawer, and slipped them on.

He padded quietly out from the bedroom, and stopped at the arch of the kitchen to watch Sherlock cast in early morning light at the window, his chin pressed down into the pad of a violin, and the belt of his dressing gown swaying at his sides as he played.

"Did I wake you?" Sherlock asked, without turning around from the window, but putting his bow down at his side.

"No, well, yes, but it's fine. I'm used to waking up in the middle of the night."

Sherlock hummed, and carefully set his violin down on the table next to him, the bow next to it. He turned, his shadow casting along the floor and across John's body.

"You look good in my pyjamas." he said.

"Sorry, I was cold."

"I don't mind."

John smiled.

"Do you mind if I make some tea? it's been a long time since I've had a decent cuppa."

"I'll get the kettle on." Sherlock said.

He brushed past John into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water from the tap. He fumbled with the cord and the outlet, catching a blue spark from the corner of his eye when he finally managed to push it in there. He pulled out his canister of tea, and dug through until he found his favourite English Breakfast.

Sherlock turned, and leaned against the counter. John was standing in front of him, his hair disheveled from sleep, and his chest rising and falling slowly. Sherlock's pyjamas were long over his feet, and a bit tight around the muscle of his thighs and his waist, but in the light of the day, he looked beautiful.

"You don't do this much, do you; the morning after?" John asked.

"Not at all. If I ever bother to make it home with someone, I have them out the door before their come can dry."

"Well, thank you for letting me stay a bit longer than that."

"You could- you could stay longer, even. I mean, the rest of your leave, if you'd like. It would only be another two days, right?"

John laughed. He crossed the kitchen and stood in front of Sherlock to brush a finger down his blushing cheek.

"I really shouldn't."

"But you will, won't you?"

John nodded, and captured Sherlock's lips between his own, biting and kissing him slowly, "Yea. I think that I will."

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
